I Don't Like Not Knowing Why
by alexysmichele
Summary: Sherlock can't figure out why John attracts him


(Author's Note: This is my first fic! Reviews are welcome and appreciated! I hope you like it!)

"Sherlock?" John called out, climbing the steps to 221B, grocery bags in hand. Entering their sitting room, he took in the scene before him. Sherlock was sprawled across the sofa in his blue dressing gown, staring at the ceiling. He sighed dramatically.

"Well, what is it, then?" John rolled his eyes, knowing what was coming. Sherlock bounded off the sofa and started pacing frantically.

"I'm _bored!"_Sherlock dragged his hands through his already rumpled hair, icy eyes flashing.

John made his way into the kitchen, going through the motions of putting away the shopping. He pointedly ignored the petri dishes, beakers, and test tubes full of God-knows-what scattered about the counters and table. "Don't you have a case?" He leaned against the doorway between the kitchen and sitting room, arms crossed, eyes fixed on his flatmate.

Sherlock scoffed. "That woman's death could hardly be construed as mysterious. Sometimes I have little doubt that the police are intentionally trying to prove their incompetence." John just looked at him expectantly, waiting for him to continue. Sherlock sighed. "Honestly, John, isn't it obvious? It was the husband. I told Lestrade never to trust an alibi. The victim had a string of lovers throughout her marriage. She had an affair, approximately eight years ago, judging by the age of her daughter. Basic genetics prove the husband didn't father the child. She has dimples, a genetic trait following an autosomal dominant pattern of inheritance. Neither the victim nor her husband display this characteristic, implying that someone else must be the father. Plus, of course, the earlobes. It's not infallible, of course, but I'm rarely wrong. The husband finds out, years later, about his wife's infidelity and kills her. As a doctor, he would have access to potassium chloride, which is used to elevate low potassium levels. It's a natural component in the human body but extremely deadly when injected intravenously. It would be nearly untraceable in the body upon autopsy, thus creating the illusion of a 'mysterious' death." He took a breath, stopped pacing and leveled his gaze at John.

John ogled at him, eyes roaming over the detective's ridiculous cheekbones, sculpted lips and intelligent, piercing stare. He wondered what it would be like to brush his mouth against those lips, burying his fingers in those dark curls—He broke off his thoughts and flushed. _No. No! What was he thinking?_ John blinked and cleared his throat. "Ah…Brilliant!" He turned away and busied himself with the kettle.

Sherlock looked after him thoughtfully. _John Watson. The man was an enigma._ He grimaced and flopped into his armchair. He was a bloody genius yet he couldn't figure out something so exceedingly simple as his flatmate. Or rather, his feelings regarding his flatmate. Sherlock closed his eyes and pressed his fingers against his lips, hands forming a steeple.

He liked John, of course. His blogger was unfailingly loyal, fiercely protective and surprisingly, pleasantly _not_ boring. But that didn't explain why Sherlock found himself thinking about his friend entirely too often and not in a strictly platonic way. Or why he always felt inordinately pleased when he made John grin genuinely, creating a fluttering sensation in Sherlock's stomach. He couldn't work out these reactions. Oh he understood that he was attracted to John. _Obviously_. But he didn't know _why._

Sherlock opened his eyes and studied the man rummaging about in the kitchen, preparing two mugs of tea. It wasn't as if John were astonishingly attractive. He was pleasing to look at, yes, but still wholly ordinary. And yet something about his sandy hair, deep blue eyes, and sturdy body made Sherlock's pulse quicken. John was one of the few people who treated Sherlock as if he were a real human being and not just some brilliant deduction-making robot. It was rather disconcerting, this new treatment, but Sherlock couldn't imagine it any differently now. John was his only friend. He had somehow filled the void in his life that Sherlock hadn't known was there. _Oh._His eyes widened. Where had _that_thought come from? Since when did Sherlock Holmes show sentiment?

John reentered the sitting room, holding out a mug for Sherlock. Sherlock took it from him, brushing his hand against John's, enjoying the spark of desire he felt and cataloguing the feeling of John's warm, rough fingers against his own. He let his fingers linger longer than strictly necessary. Sherlock gauged the doctor's reaction. John tensed, eyes flitting to Sherlock's, confusion knitting his brow. His breathing sped up and Sherlock could see the pulse in his neck beating erratically. John quickly turned away, the tips of his ears turning red. _Interesting._

"I'm going out," John abandoned his tea, hurrying out of the flat, slowing only long enough to grab his jacket. Sherlock simply stared after him with a smirk on his full lips.

John strode out of 221B, oblivious to the bitter cold and walked slowly, lost in his thoughts, not paying any mind to where he was going._What's wrong with you?_ Sherlock never failed to amaze him. The man was dazzling; you couldn't help but be in awe of him. But this was ridiculous. John couldn't deny his attraction—okay it was a bit more than just attraction—any longer. No matter how many times he told himself _notgaynotgaynotgay,_the desire for his flatmate was still there. And it wasn't as if he _were_ actually gay; he wasn't interested in other men. It was just Sherlock. It's always Sherlock. John knew why, of course. Despite being infuriatingly arrogant and remarkably frustrating a majority of the time and essentially a complete prick, Sherlock Holmes was incredible. He was dizzyingly brilliant and utterly beautiful and John was fairly certain he'd be living a dark, hazy half-life if he hadn't met the detective.

John huffed. Well, what was he going to do now? Tell him? And what would he say? _Would you like some tea, Sherlock? Oh and by the way, I'm attracted to you. Probably in love with you, you mad git. But don't worry, nothing will change. I know you're married to your work._ He snorted. Yeah, that would go over brilliantly. Chances are, his detective would completely ignore him, possibly mock him. Or John could very well end up looking for a new place to live. Though telling Sherlock of his feelings would relieve the aching weight from his shoulders, John didn't consider it an entirely viable option. Sherlock was his best friend above all else and he didn't particularly feel like risking that for what was sure to be a disastrous declaration of affection. Especially when he could say certainly that Sherlock didn't return the feelings. He didn't doubt that his flatmate cared, of course. John knew Sherlock regarded him more highly than most people and that, in his own bizarre manner, showed that he cared. And that would have to be enough. John would rather have his friendship than nothing at all.

He continued to wander aimlessly until the thoughts of Sherlock's boredom and what he might do if left to his own devices for much longer forced him to turn around and head back toward their flat.

Sherlock knew the moment John was back at 221B but he didn't move from his position in the armchair. He watched John through hooded eyes.

"I see you haven't blown up the place, then," John removed his jacket, nose reddened from the cold, cheeks slightly flushed. Sherlock made a noncommittal noise, gazing at him with a speculative gleam in his eyes.

John instantly went on alert. "What have you done?" He glanced around the flat, eyes brushing on the stacks of books, the skull on the mantle and other general clutter lying about. Nothing appeared to be out of place but he didn't like the look Sherlock was giving him. Or rather, he didn't _want_ to like the look Sherlock was giving him. He actually liked it a bit too much. Being the sole target of that piercing, silvery blue gaze was vaguely unnerving but not unpleasant. John felt like Sherlock could see through him, _into_ him and the thought sent light shudders through his body.

"Honestly, John," Sherlock drawled, eyes closed now, lips pouting faintly. "You'd think I was a child given the way you're treating me."

"Yeah, well, Sherlock, recall the last time you were bored. You nearly burned down the flat," John sighed and tried to direct his thoughts away from Sherlock's mouth. He booted up his computer, hoping to distract himself from the unsettling musings.

Sherlock flicked his hand as if to swipe away the comment. "It was an experiment!"

John only shook his head. Then a thought occurred to him. _Experiment. Was Sherlock experimenting on him?_ He couldn't rationalize the long, exploring stares and lingering touches any other way. In fact, the more he thought about it, the more it made sense. The looks Sherlock kept throwing at him were usually reserved for a specimen he was trying to figure out. John didn't know whether to be annoyed or amused. He glanced over at Sherlock, who was still draped across the armchair, still staring at him with his brow wrinkled slightly in frustration. John only cocked his head and turned back to his computer.

Sherlock continued to ponder his…predicament, for lack of a better word. He wasn't experimenting, per se. Well, not to begin with. He simply wanted to gauge John's reactions to him. He thought it might give him more insight on the man, clearing up the mystery. Sherlock didn't enjoy being in the dark about his flatmate; he was determined to learn exactly _why_ John intrigued and attracted him so much.

Sherlock once again jumped from the chair, practically vibrating with energy, and bolted from the room, disappearing for the rest of the day.

John had nearly forgotten about Sherlock's strange behavior a few days later. They had a new case (something about a serial killer who tortured his victims by mutilation) and Sherlock was once again back to his usual busy, brilliant self. John slowly made his way up the steps to their flat, exhausted from a night chasing clues and a long day in surgery. A bout of the flu was going around and he'd been crushed with sniffling, nauseous patients. He'd just settled on the sofa with a cup of tea when Sherlock bounded in, a somewhat manic look on his face.

"John!" Sherlock was practically yanking his hair out, fingers jerking through dark curls. "John! I've almost got it. But something's missing! I can't think!" He let out a frustrated growl and flopped onto the sofa.

"Err—Sherlock?" John looked down at his flatmate, whose head was now sitting in John's lap. "What're you doing?"

"I think that would be obvious, John, even to you," Sherlock drawled, eyes closed, hands lifted to his lips as though he were praying. "I'm lying on the sofa." He opened his eyes and lifted a sardonic brow, leveling his cool gaze at John.

"Well yes but—, "John spluttered. "Why? In case you haven't noticed, I'm sitting here!" His statement lost most of its heat toward the end. He didn't actually mind. He was over denying his attraction. Not that he was about to admit it. At this point, John was just puzzled. Was this part of whatever zany experiment Sherlock had decided to perform on him?

Sherlock's eyes were closed again. "I find that being near you helps me think more clearly."

Warmth spread throughout John's body. He opened his mouth to say something but no words came out. Instead, he just shook his head, smiled, and turned on the telly. He could practically hear the gears in Sherlock's head working furiously.

"So what is it that has you stumped, then?" John wasn't expecting an answer but thought he should inquire anyway. Sherlock merely grunted and, astonishingly, reached up, grabbed John's hand and set it on his head, forcing his fingers to be tangled through the detective's dark locks. John gaped in disbelief. _**What**__was going on?_As if he could hear John's thoughts, Sherlock opened his eyes and glared, daring John to say anything. John remained quiet, somewhat baffled, but continued to run his fingers through Sherlock's hair, reveling in the soft, silky texture and the warmth radiating from the detective, who settled down once he knew John wasn't going to remark on his behavior. _Who would have thought a man who appeared so cool, with his porcelain skin and icy eyes, could emit so much heat?_

They stayed like that for a while, Sherlock lost in his thoughts and John quietly watching TV cradling the detective's head in his lap, until Sherlock jumped up abruptly and shouted with glee.

"Of course!" Sherlock leapt for his scarf and coat, while texting frantically, no doubt informing Lestrade about his epiphany. He glanced over to John, who was still seated on the sofa, just watching. "Well, aren't you coming?"

"Ahh, yes. Yes, of course," John hurried out of the flat after Sherlock, slipping into his jacket. "I don't suppose you care to inform me about what the hell is going on?"

"I will on the way. Hurry up!" Sherlock hailed a cab and they were off.

Sherlock's sudden realization resulted in a mad dash against across London, chasing the murderer and his cronies. They ended up in an alley, the two of them against four very large, very stupid criminals. Despite being outnumbered, they both made it out with minimal injuries. Sherlock had a cut high on one cheekbone and would probably have a black eye in the morning. John had some bloodied knuckles and a large bruise developing on his jaw.

Lestrade bullied them into coming to the Yard to take their statements and identify the suspects. The doctor and the detective hobbled into Lestrade's office, where John took a seat. Sherlock remained standing, leaning over John's shoulder to view the photos spread out on the desk. He placed a hand on John's shoulder, squeezing lightly. His blogger frowned a bit, confused, but otherwise showed little reaction. Sherlock carefully filed away this information and catalogued the way John's muscles tensed under his hand.

_No wonder people always think we're together._ John saw how Lestrade's eyebrows raised slightly upon noticing how Sherlock was pressed against John's back, completely popping his bubble of personal space. John was used to it, because Sherlock had little sense of _anyone's_ personal space but this time it felt different. He couldn't ponder it anymore, however, as Lestrade waved them out of his office and told them to get home and clean up.

Back at the flat, John nudged Sherlock toward the bathroom, determined to take care of his flatmate's injuries before the detective fell into his deep, post-case slumber. He rifled through the first-aid kit, gathering plasters and antiseptic to clean out the cut on Sherlock's cheek. John turned around in the small space to find Sherlock gazing at him solemnly, silver-blue eyes wide. Caught in that look, John only stared back for a moment, before snapping back to his task. He gently grasped Sherlock's chin, turning his face so he could see the man's injury better. Carefully, John cleared away the blood and stuck a bandage over the cut; Sherlock was quiet the entire time. The doctor tended to his own injuries quickly and diligently, trying to ignore the fact that Sherlock was still there, watching him. He turned away for a moment and suddenly found himself being twisted back toward Sherlock, the detective's hands clutching his shoulders rather tightly.

"John," Sherlock was inches away from his face. "I can't figure you out! You make absolutely no sense to me and I don't like it." John gaped but Sherlock still continued. "I can't find an acceptable reason as to why I'm attracted to you. I don't like not knowing _why_." John's heart leapt. He could scarcely believe this was happening to him right now.

"You're reasonably attractive but nothing out of the ordinary," The detective had a frustrated line etched between his brows.

"Sherlock—"

"Your intelligence is above average, of course, but you are not on my level—"

"Sher—"

"And those jumpers you're always wearing—"

"Sherlock!" John grabbed the detective's face and covered his mouth with his hand. "Would you just shut up for a moment?" Sherlock nodded. John uncovered his mouth and tenderly grasped his flatmate's face with both hands, thumbs lightly stroking those preposterous cheekbones. For a instant, it was just the detective and his blogger, their breath mingling, hot between them, before John slowly closed the gap. His lips brushed Sherlock's softly, just grazing, testing Sherlock's reaction. But something wasn't quite right. John pulled away and found Sherlock still watching him, obviously cataloguing his every move. John smiled.

"Sherlock, stop thinking so much. Close your eyes and just turn off that mad brain of yours for a second, okay?"

"But John, how am I supposed to observe? I need to watch you!"

"No, no you don't. For once, just listen to me. Close your eyes and let yourself feel," John waited for Sherlock's lids to drop and closed the space again. This time, he pressed his lips against Sherlock's more firmly, intoxicated by the man he was holding. Sherlock caught on quickly and before long, their lips were moving together in slow, languid kisses. John gently nipped at Sherlock's bottom lip, deepening the kiss. He curled his fingers in the hair at the detective's neck as Sherlock pulled John closer. He made note of the taste of John's mouth on his, the softness of his jumper against his fingers, and the warm smell that was uniquely John's. It was a plethora of new information and Sherlock couldn't resist storing it away for later.

John pulled away slowly, pressing light, sweet kisses on Sherlock's lips before leaning his forehead against his flatmate's, hardly able to keep the grin off his face. In that moment, standing quietly wrapped in the arms of his friend—surely more than that now, right?—Sherlock came to a realization. It didn't matter _why_ he wanted John. All that was important, for now, was that Sherlock and John had each other—the brilliant consulting detective's eccentricities and the brave doctor's level-headedness a perfect balance.


End file.
